Eight-and-Twenty Tea Times Later
by ladyofthewoo
Summary: [COTAINS SPOLIERS] Following the events from the ending of the 2016 movie, and my short-story, Honeymoon Night (Of the Living Dead). The newly-wed Elizabeth and Darcy have, once again, narrowly escaped Wickham's undead army. However, as they make their way to Pemberly, dark forces conspire against them.
1. Chapter 1: Reunions and Departures

The newly-appointed Mrs. Bingley paced the stone roof of Rosings Park's left tower. Her eyes were tired and red-rimmed. Her normally golden colored hair seemed dull in the dim light. She had her favorite bow-staff in one hand, and leaned upon it wearily. She had not slept during the night.

The first light of dawn was breaking; cold, grey beams streamed weakly through the clouds. She let out a long, shaky breath. _They should have been back by now_ , she thought, nervously.

"Jane," a deep voice roused her from her worries.

It was her father, Mr. Bennet. Strapped to his usual attire was a pair of pistols, and tied about his waist was a hunting knife in a leather holster. He put his large, fatherly arm about her. She leaned into his strong embrace.

"Child," he said, as gently as was possible for him. "Do not be troubled. Have faith in your sister's training."

"I do," she said quietly. "I just… cannot help but worry..."

His hold tightened about her for a moment before he stepped away. He quickly looked her up and down, as one making an assessment. Jane turned away from him, and kept her eyes upon the hills and tree lines.

"Go back to your sisters," he said to her after a moment. "I will take over the watch. You must rest."

His tone was firm. There would be no arguing with him. She sighed and looked at his familiar, worn face.

"Very well, Papa," she said in a resigned tone.

Turning to look, one last time upon the horizon before she made her way back to the others, she spotted a hazy figure in the distance.

"Oh!" she cried. "Wait, Papa! Let me see your spy-glass!"

Mr. Bennet reached to his side where a golden spy-glass hung from a loop in his belt. Retrieving it, he passed it along to her.

"What is it, my girl?" he asked. "What do you see?"

"It—It's Lady Catherine!" she exclaimed, looking through the glass. "She's charging back— seemingly in good health— on her white horse! She carries a zombie head on a pike with her, as well!"

Within a moment, Jane could make out the rest of the company, coming up over the hill, following behind the great Lady. They marched slowly, as though they were very weary. To her immense joy, she spotted her husband and her sister among the ranks.

"Oh, Papa! It's Lizzie! She's alive!" she cried excitedly. Quick as a flash, the spy-glass was handed back over to her father and Jane began her swift descent down the tower's staircase.

Mr. Bennet let out a breath of pent-up air. Quietly, as if to himself, he said, "Well done, my dear. Well done."

* * *

Elizabeth Darcy sat hunched-over in her saddle. Although the grey mare she rode was gentle and good-humored, she felt rather ill. After consuming so much wine the night before, her head was throbbing and her stomach rolled with every footfall.

Lifting her head a little, she could make out the beautiful estate, Rosings Park, emerging through the morning fog. She sighed to herself in relief, but it came out as more of a groan.

"Elizabeth?" was the immediate response to her right.

Her husband, Colonel Fitzwilliam Darcy, rode beside her upon his long-haired, black horse. Elizabeth could tell he was concerned; although his features would have looked almost severe to the outside observer. She vaguely wondered how he was not suffering the same way as she, but decided not to comment.

Instead, she waved her hand in his general direction.

"Pay me no mind," she said, in a tired voice. "I'm merely suffering from the after-effects of last night's wine. It is nothing."

She peered over at him, shielding her eyes from the cold light of the morning sun. His worn eyes continued to scan her face, as if looking for anything amiss. She smirked slightly and gave him a pointed look.

"If I recall correctly, I told you to call me 'Lizzy' last night, did I not?" she said.

He did not smile, but his features softened considerably.

"I suppose you did," he replied huskily, looking away.

"Well then," she continued. "May I ask why I have been demoted back to 'Elizabeth'?"

She could see his mouth twitch at her teasing, although she could not tell if it was out of embarrassment or amusement. Or possibly both.

With a kick and a short yell, Darcy urged his horse into a gallop, and sprinted ahead through the ranks.

This action was so sudden that Elizabeth felt rather miffed. She frowned to herself as she watched him speed off and get lost in the sea of riders. With another sigh and groan, she lowered her gaze to the back of her mare's head. Running her fingers through its mane, she idly braided a few strands. Her horse shook its head for a moment, but continued to plod alongside Lady Catherine's soldiers. She reasoned that, at their current pace, they would be inside Rosing's gates within the half-hour.

For the next few minutes, Elizabeth attempted to massage her scalp and alleviate the pain of her headache. It did not seem to help, but it was something of a distraction. She continued in her ministrations until, all at once, the sound of galloping hooves returned to her ears.

Looking up, she saw Darcy, riding against the flow of soldiers and riders, making his way back to her. In one hand he held the reigns, in the other a flask. When he had her reached her, he turned his horse around, so that he was riding alongside her, once more.

"Here," he said, handing her the flask and avoiding her eyes. "This is water infused with Willowbark extract. It should help alleviate your ills. There seems to be an abundance of it in the medical supplies… although what they think Willowbark will do for zombie-related injuries, I haven't the foggiest."

Elizabeth stared at the flask in her hand, and then at her husband. He was looking straight ahead at Rosings. His expression was tense under her gaze, and if he had been prone to blushing, he would have been as red as a cherry. Although it would have been easy to tease him in that moment, she found she didn't have the will to do so. Instead, she clutched the flask to her breast and smiled, knowingly.

Glancing at her with the side of his eyes, he said in his distinguished, raspy voice, "Well, _Lizzy_ , drink up."

Her smile growing wider, she nodded and drank from the flask.

* * *

He was pretty sure his wife was going to make him go mad.

Gods! Just the thought of the word " _wife_ " seemed to make him irrational. How had this girl managed to change his life so much? At one time, he had reasoned that, if he could only marry her, his torment of feelings would end. Yet, they never ended; if anything, it only grew worse! It was a burning, insanely sweet torture.

He turned to look at her, as she sat beside him; her cheek resting against her horse's neck.

There sat beside him the love of his life: the loveliest, dearest, deadliest Elizabeth. In all his eight and twenty years, he had never felt so much emotion for anyone outside his immediate circle of family and close friends.

His childhood had been a strict one. It was one built with the binding ties of loyalty.

His father knew what kind of world awaited his son. He knew that the young Fitswilliam would need to be strong, dignified, educated, and deadly; to be the example of a rational man in an irrational time. He would need to be attached to few, suspicious of many, and logical in all his decisions. As a boy, he was often alone and had few opportunities for frivolity. Instead, all of his time was measured by blocks of training, studying, and learning.

Yet, despite this ridged lifestyle, his father loved him dearly, and the boy believed his father to be the wisest man on earth. Darcy's whole life consisted of nothing but his father, his sister, Charles Bingley, George Wickham, and his sensei, Master Tanaka. They were his family—his world—and each helped mold him into the man he was to be.

And yet, as time went on, this circle began to shrink. First, his sensei passed away only a few days before he left to secure a position in the military. Soon after, his father mysteriously contracted the zombie infection. Young Darcy had been one-and-twenty at the time. It was much too young to have to kill your own father—although Darcy reasoned that he would have _never_ been ready to kill his own father. Yet he had to.

The day his father died, something changed inside of him. What little of his world he still had left to protect, he strove to protect them with all his might.

When Wickham had betrayed his trust, it all but broke his heart. His world, his circle, was all but two. His sister, Georgiana, and his best friend, Charles Bingley.

Darcy threw himself deeper into his military service. He hated the unmentionable swarms, and yet he thought he would have been lost without them at the time. It wasn't until Bingley called him back to the "civilized" world that he began to feel human again.

And then, suddenly, Elizabeth.

Suddenly, his circle seemed to both expand and shrink, for there seemed to be an added layer to his life. A new inner circle. This inner circle was a world that only he and Elizabeth were privy to. A space where only she existed. It shook him to his core.

Everything his life had been lacking could be found in her; gaiety, compassion, and a comfortable amount of incivility. She brought in new colors, friends, thoughts, longings, and sensations into his heart. In her, he found someone—not to protect—but to fight at his side. He didn't know how to handle it.

He heard her sigh, and he roused himself from his thoughts to look at her. Even exhausted, she was radiant. She opened her cinnamon brown eyes slightly and caught him staring at her. She smiled at him. He looked away; warmth filling his heart and fire blazing in his loins.

"Husband," she cooed.

He glanced at her sideways, but said nothing.

"I believe you are in want of sleep," she continued. "Your appearance is quite haggard..."

Her head was still resting against her horse's neck, and she was stroking his mane, slowly.

"More so than usual, that is," she said with a teasing smile. He glared at her, but she didn't seem intimidated. Instead her eyes looked down at the ground, as if suddenly shy.

"Perhaps," she continued, though her voice sounded quiet and cautious. "Perhaps we should retire early today."

The meaning behind her words hit him like a bullet. His had a white-knuckled grip on the reins of his horse, and he seemed to have lost his voice. Looking away from her, he tried to clear his head.

"I…" he started, then paused to wet his lips. "I wish we could, Lizzy. But I'm afraid we must leave Rosings today and make for my— _our_ —home at Pemberley."

"Pemberley?"

"Yes. I've… left my sister alone for too long, and now with Wickham on the prowl…" he trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Ah," replied Elizabeth. "I see…"

She was quiet for a while, thinking.

"I understand your wish to return to your sister," she said. "I only wish I had a little more time with mine but…" she paused. Reaching across, she laid her hand upon his.

"I am happy to be going with you," she admitted, tenderly. "Perhaps Pemberley will be a place where I finally feel as though I belong."

Tentatively, he opened his hand to accept hers, and gently ran the pad of his thumb over her knuckles.

"I hope so, Lizzy," he replied, bringing her hand up to kiss. He could not help but feel the light tremble that traveled through Elizabeth's body, and he gripped her hand tightly.

"Well, Darcy," came a voice from behind him. "I never realized you could be so affectionate."

Charles Bingley rode up to Darcy's left, grinning like the devil. Darcy immediately let Elizabeth's hand drop, causing her to laugh under her breath.

"Charles, do you have a death wish?" he croaked out, glaring daggers at his friend.

"Only if it's a tolerable one," he replied, winking at Elizabeth and making her laugh more.

Once again, he concluded that his wife would, indeed, drive him mad.

* * *

"Lizzy!" came the jubilant shouts of her sisters. They came rushing and bounding towards her like frolicking cows over spring grass. She dismounted her horse and was caught up in Kitty's embrace. Lydia was shouting at her sister and hugging one of her arms, while Mary had the other. Jane ran up to her and kissed her cheeks; her eyes were full of unshod tears. Her mother and father held back for a moment; a smile on her father's lips and nervous remarks upon her mother's. Despite always feeling out-of-place amongst them, she knew that they loved her. They were her odd, quarreling, mad family, and she loved them dearly.

Suddenly, it felt rather hard to leave them.

"Father," she said, once the jubilant shouts and shows of affection had calmed. "I'm afraid I must take leave of you all again."

Darcy had gone with the other soldiers to refresh the horses and to report to Lady Catherine. The Bennets had retreated to a small music room in the west wing of the great house.

"Leave? What d'you mean, leave?" her mother shouted. "So soon?! You've only just come back. Oh my, Lizzie! Don't be absurd!"

Not looking to her mother, Elizabeth spoke solely to her father and implored his reason.

"I am a newlywed woman," she said, firmly. "My life must now follow alongside my husband. With Wickham's return, we are concerned about the safety of young Georgiana Darcy. He has gone after her in the past, and we fear he will again out of spite. Therefore, we plan to make haste to Pemberley."

"Pemberley?" he father question, his eyebrow raised.

"Yes," she replied. "That is his estate. Rather, that is _our_ estate."

She looked at the ground, as if trying to summon the last of her resolve from the floorboards. Her eyes were shining and she blushed lightly.

"When we are certain that all is safe, I will call for you," she said, looking back up at her father. "If you wish to remain here, Lady Catherine will surely agree. Otherwise, they will send an escort with you back home."

Her family members were silent, for once. Slowly, they all came towards her. Each embraced her and held her tightly, as if it were the last time they would see one another. Jane had tears falling down her cheeks as she kissed her once again.

"Oh Lizzy," she muttered, sadly.

"That is enough my dears," Mr. Bennet said to them all, his voice gentle. "Strange times these may be, Lizzy is right to go. I would have never consented for her to marry if I did not think her capable. Nor could I ever part with her for anyone less worthy than the man she has chosen."

"Yes but," Mrs. Bennet interjected. "Can she not at least spare one more night with us? It is much too soon! My poor nerves can hardly take the thought of losing her when we only just got her back!"

"My dear," Mr. Bennet said sternly. "If you did not want her to go, you should not have so ardently wanted our girls to marry!"

Mrs. Bennet pouted for a moment, unable to think of a response to the accusation, when suddenly her resolve to fight crumbled. She ran forward and embraced both Jane and Elizabeth.

"Oh my darlings," she said, her voice thick with tears. "There is nothing so bad than _parting with one's children_. I shall feel so lost and forlorn without you!"

"Mama," Elizabeth said, holding her mother tightly. "Jane and I will be alright. I will send for you as soon as all is settled."

"And when will that be?!" her mother demanded tearfully.

Elizabeth looked at her father meaningfully, yet said to her mother, "Soon, mama. Very soon. You'll hardly notice I'm gone."

* * *

Charles Bingley was no fighter. He never had been.

His father had been a wealthy, genial man; someone full of ideals, but no motivation. The majority of his money had been invested into the British army and militia. He felt that it was his way of contributing to the cause, without actually ever having to fight the undead. Thus, both he, and his son, held a great deal of political sway over the military.

When his young sisters had begged their father to study the deadly arts in Japan (as was fashionable), their father had given them the consent, on the condition that Charles chaperon them. He had been thirteen at the time, and more interested in sports than combat. As a result of his lack of training for his age, he was often the subject to ridicule and torment from the other boys.

That is, until he met Darcy.

Darcy was nearly three years his senior, and when they met, he was already considered the most formidable student ever trained at their dojo in Kyoto. His shaggy hair, dark eyes, and lean build intimidated—not just students—but even a few masters. Charles had decided to stay clear of him from the day he and his sisters had first arrived.

And yet, one evening, when some of the boys of his dormitory had tied and gagged him in his sleep, and drug him outside to "practice" kendo on him, Darcy was the silent figure waiting for them. One look at the helpless, smaller boy, and Darcy's wooden sword was set loose upon the captors. When all had fled, bruised and yowling in pain, Darcy untied the younger, half-crying boy and said, "Well then, I suppose you better stay with me. Those bastards are no better than zombies, and will probably be waiting for your return."

Charles had nodded and followed after him. Darcy's father, hoping to encourage his son's detachment from others, had purchased an empty dormitory as his son's lodgings. As a result, Charles was able to move from his situation into Darcy's Kyoto residence easily.

Charles quickly learned a great deal about his new roommate. Far from being the roguish, terrifying teenager Darcy's appearance suggested, Charles found him to be a shy and sarcastically charming young man. Years of being left detached and isolated from the society of others had left young Darcy quite awkward, to say the least.

For example, Charles would often recall one particular instance when the girl's and boy's dojos were invited to a traditional Japanese summer festival. Being that both genders were present, dancing, of course, ensued. A beautiful, young Japanese woman had caught Darcy's eye and with Charles' insistent prodding, the shy young man reluctantly asked her to dance.

Unfortunately, not having practiced the art of dancing or interacting with the feminine sex, he ended up stepping on her feet several times and almost smacking her hairpiece off her head. As a result, the young woman threw sake in his face and stormed off. Though Darcy had merely shrugged and appeared disinterested in the display, Charles remembered that he had refused to leave his dorm room for a week, and still, to this day, hated dancing with a passion.

Charles would often internally call him, "Dramatic Darcy" after that.

The two young men were the most unlikely friends. Charles was outgoing, handsome, and optimistic. Darcy was anti-social, stern, and often called himself "more realistic" than Charles. Yet, they enjoyed each other's company more than they would have ever admitted. Darcy protected Charles and helped teach him to defend himself. They would take special night classes with one of their older sensei, Master Tanaka, to help ease Charles' gap in training.

In turn, Charles taught Darcy how to be human. He taught him how to smile, and even occasionally laugh. They got into countless misadventures, scuffles, and were constantly rescuing each other (Charles from fights, Darcy from social interaction). They both dreamed up and planned out the sort lives they wanted to lead, and in this dream-future, no man or zombie could touch them. Together, they had three golden years of memories.

When Darcy turned eighteen, his training was complete. With a heavy heart, sixteen-year-old Charles bade his friend goodbye, promising that when he returned to England, they would reunite. Darcy had nodded and said nothing, but Charles knew his friend well enough to understand that, he too, wished for nothing more than to reunite again one day. Their sensei, Master Tanaka, took it upon himself to journey to England with him. He had become quite fond of his two pupils, and wished to witness the zombie infestation himself. Darcy and Tanaka were very similar in temperament, and so the arrangement was eagerly accepted by the young man.

The years passed. Charles never became a competent fighter, but he did become a more attractive man. With money and handsome features, came popularity. His list of friends grew daily, but always at the top was Darcy. When his youngest sister turned eighteen and was complete with her training, the three siblings finally returned home. Their father, whom had never much been close with his children, died of old age that very year and left the entire estate and holdings to Charles. When all had been sorted through, he sought out his old friend.

What he found was a very different man from the awkward teenager he had once known. The Darcy that stood before him was now four-and-twenty, and had lost much. He was closed off, battle-hardened, and seemingly unfeeling. His life was nothing now but a borderline obsession with fighting the undead. When pressed, he did not speak a great deal about what evils had befallen him— save only that his father and Tanaka had died, and that he had, somehow, been betrayed.

Slowly, as one coaxes an injured animal from its den, Charles brought Darcy back to a semblance of normal life. He brought his sisters to Pemberley and met Darcy's sister Georgiana. The group quickly became fast friends, although Darcy was never at ease around Charles' sisters. Through gentle encouragements, sparring, and their unbreakable brotherhood, Darcy slowly began to show glimpses of his old self again. Although, Charles could tell that he would never be the same.

Three years later, Darcy told Charles that he needed to accompany the Bingleys to their new estate of Netherfield Park. It was "too dangerous to go unaided" he had said. Of course, Charles had agreed to let him come, and his sisters seemed more than happy with his presence. When they had arrived, an invitation was sent to them, almost immediately, by a local gentleman, in hopes that they could meet their new neighbors. Being a gregarious and fun-loving person, Charles had accepted the invitation, much to Darcy's distress.

Never had he been so glad to drag Darcy to a social function, for it was there that he saw her.

The lovely Jane Bennet was a delicate flower of a girl. A halo of gold hair rimmed her doll-like face, and her clear eyes seemed to look right into his very soul. The full force of her youth and beauty hit him like a storm. He had immediately pointed her out to his friend.

"She smiles too much," he had remarked, which Charles knew was Darcy-speak for "I can't find anything wrong with her."

Some months later, when Darcy admitted to purposely setting out to separate them, Charles had felt rage and betrayal like he had never known. Darcy had only just revived from the Hingman Bridge incident, when he had told him. Without hesitation, Charles had lifted back his arm and punched Darcy square in the face. Surprised that he made contact, Charles had stood back.

"Why did you let me hit you?" he had said. "You would have normally blocked it."

"Because I deserved it," the now-bloodied Darcy had said. "I… was trying to protect you… but instead, I deceived you and I protected you from something good. It was wrong of me."

Charles had laughed when Darcy said those words, causing more damage than a blow to the ribs would have.

"You are such a child sometimes, Darcy," Charles had said. "All your training, all your study… yet, when it comes to matters of the heart, you know nearly nothing!"

"I know some things," he had replied quietly.

"Truly? Do _you_?"

"Yes…" Darcy had replied, looking lost and in pain. "Forgive me, Charles."

Charles had looked at Darcy, and once again, saw a new person being born out of the old one. For all at once, Charles could see that Darcy was now a man in love; a dangerous, desperate, and evolving creature.

Charles had smiled, embraced him, and said, "I forgive you my friend… my brother. You have done all the fighting for me, and I have done all the social navigation for you. Yet now, I see that we must switch places. It is my turn to protect myself, and it is your turn to open yourself to others."

Stepping back, Charles had put his hand on Darcy's shoulder and said, "Miss Elizabeth loves you, Darcy. Do not doubt it and do not let her go."

Seeing Darcy's speechless and flustered expression, Charles had left the room, satisfied.

* * *

"Mrs. Bingley," he called out sweetly. Jane was sitting, alone, in a small music room. Her hands were clutching a floral shawl, and strands of her golden hair hung loose about her face.

She looked up from her lap, and he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and tear stained. Charles rushed over, dropping onto his knees before her and taking her hands into his.

"Dearest," he said, soothingly. "Why are you crying?"

"Oh Charles," she replied, pressing her face into shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, protectively, though he knew full well she was a finer warrior than he.

"Jane, please, tell me what the matter is," he implored. "Please, Jane?"

"It's Lizzy," she admitted, her voice muffled by his coat. "I have… hardly ever been parted from her, yet she leaves for Pemberley today."

"Does she now?" Charles asked, looking somewhat surprised.

"Yes," Jane replied, trying to stop her tears and sniffing terribly. "I'm so sorry, Charles. I _am_ happy you have returned. I _am_ ready to go with you. I truly don't mean to cry like this. She's just so headstrong and determined… and I just love her so dearly! It will hard to be away from her—but I will get used to it, I promise I will!"

"Oh Jane, Jane," he said tenderly. "Don't apologize, dear one. Don't ever apologize for loving your sister or missing your family. It does not hurt me in the slightest. I know that you love me…"

He paused, slightly embarrassed at his words, and then continued good-naturedly, "You _do_ love me, don't you?"

Her eyes creased as she gave him a honeyed smile, and a tinge of pink bloomed on her cheeks.

"Yes," she whispered. He stared at her beautiful face and his heart beat within his chest.

"You know," Charles said, tilting her chin back to look into her eyes. "Perhaps we, too, should visit Pemberley before we go on. Something tells me my friend may need my assistance."

"Can we?!" Jane cried, happily. "Oh, Charles!"

Her joyful exclamations were swallowed up as he caught her lips in a sweet, wet kiss.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]


	2. Chapter 2: Emotional Interlude

**Sorry for the length of this chapter. Consider it a short interlude before something more substantial. Enjoy!  
-C**

* * *

"You intend to quit me so soon?" Lady Catherine asked him with one raised brow. She was in the middle of cleaning her sword, and Darcy observed that her dark riding clothes were still covered in dried blood. Her boots also appeared to have chunks of brain stuck in-between her heels.

"Really, Darcy," she continued, smiling haughtily. "So eager to bed your wife that you cannot stay to fight the undead? You've changed, Nephew."

"Aunt," he said, his voice thick with warning.

"Oh, shush," she replied, disinterestedly. "I cannot begrudge a newly-wed soldier his time from the battlefront."

"Madam, this has nothing to do with my… er… wife," he interjected quickly. "I fear for my sister's safety. She is still so young."

"Not so young. You were younger than she when you began to make your dent against the zombie horde," she replied, however her eye narrowed in thought. "Yet, I understand your concern. Young Georgiana is… rather gentle of heart."

Darcy nodded but said nothing.

"Very well," she said in place of his silence. "What method do you intend to travel by?"

"Horseback," he replied. "The families here are in more need of carriages than Elizabeth and I. The journey should not be too difficult for us."

"I do not doubt your lack of difficulty," she said, lifting her weapon and admiring its shine. She smiled. "I do not doubt that, together, you and your wife will become the most dangerous creatures in all of England."

Darcy said nothing.

Turning, at last, away from her blade, she gazed her good eye upon Darcy's features.

"Go then," she said. "Secure Pemberly, protect your sister, and send me word when your task is complete."

Darcy gave her a curt nod, turned, and departed from her presence.

Lady Catherine stared after him in thought as he quit the room. Quietly, she said, "God speed, Nephew."

* * *

The soft knock broke her from her thoughts. She was seated on a sofa in one of the many parlor rooms housed by Rosings. To her left sat Lydia, reading and leaning affectionately against her. To her right, Mary was practicing her embroidery without much success. Her father was dozing in an armchair nearby. Her mother had retired to her room, on account of her nerves, with Kitty in tow.

At the sound of the knock, the three sisters looked up from where they were reclined. Standing in the doorway was Colonel Darcy. Mary smiled hesitantly at him, as though she was unsure what to think of him. Lydia blushed a deep red and nearly dropped her book.

Elizabeth simply nodded and rose from her seat.

"Time to go, I suppose?" she asked, although it sounded much more like a statement. At her words, both of her sisters turned to her with alarm.

Although Darcy's expression hardly changed, Elizabeth thought that it looked stained with guilt. He seemed reluctant to tear her from the scene. He nodded solemnly.

"Very well," she sighed. Turning, she kissed her sisters cheeks and hugged them tightly. In loving whispers, they expressed all the affection they had for her; things she already knew with unknown confidence. Approaching her father, she didn't have the heart to rouse him from slumber and, instead, kissed his cheek tenderly.

"Tell mama I love her," she said to her sisters. "Tell Kitty and… and Jane as well. We must be off."

"Oh Lizzy!" they cried, embracing her once more.

Taking in a steadying breath, Elizabeth hugged them back. They began to cry; abruptly she lifted her head, turned, and walked out the door. Darcy, looking uncomfortable at the display, gave a short bow and followed after her.

"Elizabeth," he called, but she gave no answer. With determined steps, she made for the stables.

"Elizabeth!" he called out again. Her pace merely quickened. However, his stride was longer than hers. He caught up with her easily.

"Lizzy!" he exclaimed, grabbing her by the arm and turning her to face him. He was shocked to find her eyes full of tears and her nose pink with sorrow.

She looked at him, as if ashamed, and began to fiercely rub the tears from her eyes with her free hand.

"I-it's nothing," she said, shakily. "Let us be off."

Darcy simply stared at her, his mouth forming a hard line, his eyes sweeping over her face. Releasing her arm, he slowly placed his hands upon her shoulders. She felt warm and tender at his touch, which seemed to make it more difficult to refrain from crying.

"If you recall my words, love is a dangerous weapon," he told her. "It is easy to be wounded by it. Therefore, there is no shame in such tears."

Lifting his hand, he cupped her cheek and brushed a stubborn tear away with his thumb. Stooping down to meet her, he kissed her wet face lightly, leaving her mind awash with emotions.

"Are you still certain you'll have me?" he said, his eyes scrutinizing and his words serious.

"Yes," she replied, brushing the back of her arm against her eyes once more. Releasing her shoulders, he stood back from her a little.

"Then cry all you'd like," he said brusquely. "I don't mind in the slightest, and I'm certain you'll punish anyone who dares to belittle you for it."

She smiled a little at his words and he took her by the hand. They began to walk towards the stables together. Darcy turned to look at her, just as she turned to examine him. As her shining eyes met his, he smirked back with lovable shyness.

"You have such a fine pair of eyes, Lizzy," he said confidentially. "I don't mind if they are washed every now and again…"

"Really? Well, tell me, what sort of warrior cries?" she shot back sarcastically.

"A human one," he replied seriously. "I'd prefer for you to be the emotional, female, _human_ warrior that you are, than an unfeeling killing automaton, any day."

She squeezed his hand lovingly, and they walked on.


	3. Chapter 3: On the Road

The sky was overcast and foreboding that afternoon. The sun, still trying his best to reach out to the earth, shone blindingly through the grey clouds every now and again. The road seemed long and hard; flinty and dreary. Pemberley was to the North; a good distance away from Fallen London. A trip from Rosings Park to Pemberley was a two-day journey, and the direct route ran through old forests. Though this passage was not considered dangerous, and was not particularly known for zombie infestations, travelers were cautious when taking it. Rumors spoke of it being haunted by the souls of the damned.

Elizabeth's grey mare and Darcy's black horse trotted down the path at a moderate speed. Spirited animals though they were, the night's activity had left them weary. Considering the distance and their condition, Darcy had allowed them to set the pace.

Elizabeth had not spoken since they had left Rosings. Either her melancholy, or her thoughts, kept her attention elsewhere. It pained Darcy to see her in such a manner. For the first few hours, they rode side-by-side in silence; until, at last, Darcy could bear it no longer.

"Elizabeth," he barked out abruptly, causing her to quickly face him as one expecting some sort of danger. When she found no source for alarm, she stared at him with a puzzled expression. Glancing sideways at her, Darcy opened his mouth to converse, only to shut it again.

Bemused, Elizabeth asked him what was the matter.

"Nothing," said he, quickly, averting his eyes from hers.

The road was becoming narrow, as the old trees of the forest grew thickly about it. The couple was forced to slow their horses to a walking pace to avoid them tripping over the ancient roots. Little birds called out to one another and darted in an out of the trees, as though they expected rain to fall at any moment. Keenly intuitive, Darcy spotted a dozen long-eared hares moving softly through the thorn bushes alongside of the path.

After taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth for a second time.

"Do you enjoying reading, Elizabeth?" he asked in what he assumed was a _conversational_ tone.

Elizabeth blinked and stifled a smirk.

"Yes," she said slowly. "You already know that I do."

"Ah," he replied, awkwardly. "Yes, of course." Struggling now, he looked about the root-strewn path, as if conversation topics would be growing out from under them.

Elizabeth smiled kindly at him. "Do you?" she asked.

"What?" he replied, confused.

"Do you enjoy reading?"

He turned to look upon her and nodded.

"Yes," he admitted. "I do."

"What sort of books do you enjoy reading?"

"Mostly books on battle tactics and advanced sword technique. I will occasionally read articles on weapon advancements… although… I used to…"

He paused, as if embarrassed by what he was about to confess.

"When I was a _boy_ , mind you," he said, firmly. "I enjoyed the tales of Robin Hood."

"Truly?" she replied, delighted; a beautiful smile beaming from her face.

"Truly," he admitted, relieved that he was drawing her into a happier mood. "When I was very young, I would often make-pretend that I was fighting the Sherriff of Nottingham's soldiers during kendo practice."

"Oh how brave of you!" she said, teasingly. He smirked at her.

"What do you enjoy reading?" he asked, hoping he made good conversation by following her example.

"Oh everything," she replied, flippantly. "If it is made of paper and ink, I will read it."

"Well then," he replied. "Pemberley has, at least, one quality you may appreciate."

"What do you mean?"

"Our library is extensive. If I am not mistaken, it may be the largest in the county."

Elizabeth's eyes sparkled at his words. "Is that so?" she asked, fervently.

"It is," was his clipped reply.

"That sounds wonderful!" she said with a surprisingly serious and determined look upon her face. Darcy could tell, by her expression, that his library would be thoroughly plundered by his fierce little wife. The thought coaxed a small grin from him.

"What else can you tell me of Pemberley?" she inquired.

"What would you like to know?"

"Is it a large estate? Is it very old? Is it fine?"

"It's… not as large as Rosings," he began, vaguely. "But large enough for many rooms—though most are closed off as we keep few servants. As far as age, I am not certain. It has been in my family since my great-grandfather; so, I suppose, it must be somewhat old. As for fineness or beauty…"

He paused, thinking.

"It is home," he said at last, shrugging. "For me, it shall always seem to hold a kind of beauty to it. Whether you will think so, I do not know."

Elizabeth began to say something in reply, but hastily closed her mouth and shook her head. Instead, she simply looked forward and smiled.

"I'm sure I will," she said.

For the next few hours, they rode on in companionable silence. Each of them, lost in thought and strangely hopeful.

* * *

Lightning cut through the air, and echoes of thunder rumbled through the forest. Birds fled to their roosts and rabbits to their den. Zombies let out muffled cries against the sound. Though blood-thirsty and irrational, they still faintly remembered to fear the lightning.

Elizabeth's coats were drenched and her riding trousers clung tightly to her legs. Her hands felt rough from the incessant rain and she could tell her mare was getting tired. The poor creature plodded along wearily.

"Darcy," Elizabeth said, at length.

He was slightly in front of her at the moment, inspecting their path. He had turned up the collar on his traveling coat in attempt to keep the rain off his neck. His dark hair lay wet against his head; his dark eyes piercing through the rain.

He peered over his shoulder at her. Elizabeth bit her lip.

"The horses are tired," she said to him. "And it is growing dark. With the conditions the way they are, I don't think they will last much longer."

He nodded, but said nothing.

"Do you have a plan?" she persisted.

"More or less," he said; his raspy voice cut through distant sounds of thunder. When he gave no further explanation, Elizabeth sighed to herself. Though she would never admit it, she felt very tired. It had been an emotional and long day.

Although it had been overcast throughout most of the day, Elizabeth could tell it was nearing evening, for the light grew dimmer and dimmer as they trudged on. Her horse gave a whinny, and she reached out to stroke its matted mane.

Suddenly! A cold, undead arm burst from the rooted pathway and grabbed the mare's front leg. With a start, the poor horse reared up on its hind legs in fright and bellowed loudly. More arms exploded from the ground, as a dozen unmentionables attempted to crawl out of the wet earth. Elizabeth clenched her legs tightly to the mare, refusing to be thrown off. Quick as a thought, she loosed her butterfly knives and prepared for a skirmish.

Looking ahead, she could see that Darcy was in a similar situation. His horse was stomping vainly at the ground, and he was drawing out his sword to fight them. Elizabeth stopped her struggle when she heard loud, strange laughter. She turned her gaze forward and peered down the path.

Up ahead, it appeared that a group of mangled school children were burying their friends for sport. Their childish, yet distorted, voices struck the air with eerie laughter. Upon seeing the couple, they skipped towards them, joyfully. Their lolling heads and sightless eyes lit up in youthful mirth, trailing blood and entrails upon the path.

"Elizabeth!" Darcy cried, raising his blade above his head. "Stay with me!"

Slicing through the arms that held his horse, he gave a mighty "Yah!" and urged his steed into a gallop. Elizabeth followed suit, her knives slicing the wrists of her captors, and the couple charged the undead children.

"Come and plaaay!" cried the children, running faster. "Come and play! Come plaay with us Darcyyy!"

How they knew his name, Elizabeth had no time to wonder, for they smashed into the lot at full speed. Several dozen were blocking their path, and more began to join them from the woods. They crowded the road, almost as if they wished to be trampled. As they made their way through, the horses hooves crushed the heads of those in their way. Each step they took was accented by the sounds of crying, squishing, and crunching; and the haunting childish laughter.

Knives, swords, and horses cut through the horde. For a moment, it seemed to Elizabeth, that they would make it through them easily; for they had already nearly passed through them all.

However, a snapping sound caught her attention a second too late, as an undead girl with ginger-red hair jumped from the trees and slammed into her. The child's eyes were white as milk and the right corner of her head was missing. Elizabeth, to her horror, was pushed by the girl with such a force, that she fell off her mount into the arms of the awaiting horde.

Cutting off the head of the ginger girl upon her, Elizabeth sliced in a full-circle arc and hit the flesh of another unmentionable. Her horse had continued without her, and she quickly realized that the horde was rushing to circle about her.

 _Not good_ , she thought as she kicked a gruesome teen-aged zombie running at her full-sprint. _I cannot fight them all alone._

In a matter of moments, she brought down two more zombies, but it seemed the more she killed, the more joined the fight. In a flash, another hand popped out of the ground and grabbed her foot, stopping her mid-kick and causing her to stumble. Her knife met the head of yet another foe as she fell. Elizabeth withdrew it, quickly, struggling to slice near her heel.

But they were too quick, seizing her shoulders, two zombie children held her down. She stared at them; her eyes full of both desperation and fury. Their dead eyes rolled in their sockets, unhinged. Their bony fingers gripping her painfully.

"Play with us," they chanted, wicked grins cracking their rotten skin. "Play with us foreverrr."


	4. Chapter 4: Caked Blood

His wife's horse ran past him wildly. Its eyes were wide and unfocused. Steaming froth dripped from its mouth. Paying no heed to the ground, the poor creature tripped over some roots strewn about the pathway. With a sickening snap, it broke its ankle and collapsed with a desperately loud whinny. The undead children that had been following them were upon the fallen horse in a matter of moments. The horse bellowed as tiny teeth began to sink into its skin. Its almost human-like screams caused shivers to go down Darcy's spine. However, it wasn't the dying horse that caused him to feel the rush of fear.

It was the fact that his wife's horse was unaccompanied.

With astonishing skill, he checked his steed, wheeled, and went charging round. Forcing his way back down the path, he charged full-speed into the crowd of zombies. Trampling through them, he came upon a circle of zombies that were laughing and cheering.

Elizabeth's flushed face came to view from the center of the crowd. To his horror, he saw that the undead children had grabbed hold of each of her limbs and were playing a sick form of tug-of-war with her body. Pulling from all sides, she was biting her lip, furiously, as though to keep from crying out. Her butterfly-knives lay, useless, underneath her. Though she was struggling to break free, the stretching of her muscles and the number of children kept her at a disadvantage.

Darcy ground his teeth in anger. His eyes narrowed and he charged his horse into the center of the zombie ring. When he was close enough to reach Elizabeth, he jumped off his horse. Though he gave no war-cry, his katana spoke for him, loudly. He sliced his way through the crowd with efficient, terrifying stokes. The zombies rushed him, but because of their youth, they fell beneath his blade easily.

He came to the circle center. Though he was outnumbered, he trembled with bloodlust and bravado. He had come for his wife. There was no room for fear for himself.

The zombie children playing with Elizabeth, looked at him and laughed. A pale blond boy, holding her head between his bloodied, bony hands turned to him. Half of his face was missing and tiny, white maggots crawled in and out of his once rosy cheeks.

"Georgie-porgie puddin' pie," the little zombie boy sang. "Kissed the girls and made them cry…"

Speckles of saliva dribbled from his mouth onto Elizabeth's forehead. He began to gently tug at her, straining her neck, even as she was already suspended between the children in the air. She began to breathe quickly through her nose; her expression full of frustration.

Darcy came forward as though to strike, but the boy gave a sharp yank at Elizabeth's head, causing her to involuntarily cry out. Darcy stopped mid-step.

"But when the Darcy comes to play," the zombie child sang threateningly, squeezing the sides of Elizabeth's head. "Miss Elizabeth dies today…"

Darcy eyes were focused on Elizabeth's face intensely, and the zombie child flashed a boyish grin.

"Wickham sends his regards, sir," he giggled, snapping Darcy's focus back to him. Then with a grunt, all the zombie children began to pull.

A whistle. A smack. A spurt of blood.

The zombie child holding Elizabeth's right hand fell backwards with a quiet thud. In his neck was a deadly throwing star, loose from Darcy's coat pocket. Elizabeth, in a span of seconds, used her free hand to find her butterfly-knife underneath her. Grabbing it, she stabbed the blond boy in the side of his head.

In that same moment, Darcy sliced the zombie child, holding her left arm, in half. Her front side free, she fell onto her back. With tremendous strength, she threw off the children at her feet; kicking through the jaw of one, and tossing back the other.

Darcy rushed to her side and lifted her to her feet. She was shaking and her right leg was bloodied. For a moment, the thought that she had been bitten crossed his mind, but decided to worry about the possibility later.

Half-carrying her, the two returned to his horse, who was bucking zombies away from itself. Darcy felt a deep respect for the beast, for it had not abandoned them.

Jumping up on the horse's back, he reached down to Elizabeth and quickly set her in front of him. Then, with a kick, they raced away from the scene. The mangled children ran after them, but all too soon, they were lost in the downpour and hidden from view. Still they raced on, until their screams and mumbling could no longer be heard. The only sound Darcy could hear was the panting of his horse, the violence of the rain, the pounding of his heart, and the occasional pained moan from Elizabeth.

"My horse!" she suddenly exclaimed, looking about her wildly. "Where is my horse?!"

"Gone," was his clipped reply.

Lizzy bowed her head and clenched her hands in anger. Darcy looked down at her as they rode; his analytical brain rushing back to the question he loathed to ask.

"Lizzy," he said, hesitantly, gently, in her ear. "Were you bitten?"

"I-I," she replied, gasping from the pain in her leg. "I don't know, darling… I don't know…"

His mouth forming a hard line; he nodded.

"We are going to my halfway house," he said to her, his voice hard and monotone. "I will examine you there."

* * *

Darcy's halfway house appeared to be a small hunting lodge hidden among dark pine trees and a small river some two miles from where they had met the zombie-children. It was made of wood and stone. Dark leafed vines grew about it and sharp, rusty spikes were mounted on its walls. A small, stone stable was built beside it and gated with black metal bars.

Darcy took his weary horse into the stable. Blessing his fortune, he found that he was still well-stocked with both food and water for the noble beast. Helping Elizabeth down from the saddle, he noted that her skin felt feverish. He frowned, but said nothing. As she stood beside the horse, she assisted him with the removal of the saddle, but winced each time she put weight on her right leg.

He looked her over. Her tightly knotted hair had many stray strands that stuck to her face with moisture. Both the rain and her own perspiration dampened her features. Her face was flushed and her eyes drowsy. He quickly finished securing food and water for the horse. Once satisfied, he led Elizabeth by the hand into the lodge.

It was dark, but contained many readily-available lamps. The entryway led directly into a great, but crowded kitchen. A large wooden table with many chairs sat directly beside the ovens and cupboards, and across from these furnishings, a low sofa sat before a huge fireplace. Above the fireplace was a large painting depicting a group of handsome men and their hunting dogs pursuing a fox. Lighting a lamp, Darcy turned to her.

"It is a small place," he said, almost apologetically. "However, it is easy to defend and is already well protected by the trees and river. We should be secure for the night."

Elizabeth nodded, but said nothing.

"The doors here lead to a storage room, a washroom, and a… ah, bedroom," he said, awkwardly. "I suggest you take a warm bath in the washroom and change. I will examine your wound afterwards."

Again she nodded, but as she started to walk towards the washroom, her leg crumpled beneath her and she began to fall. Rushing up to her, Darcy gathered her weary form into his arms and held her up.

"Darcy," she whimpered to him, showing a side of herself he had never seen. His heart thudded against his chest as he realized she confided her weakness in him; perhaps, him alone.

"I will help you," he heard himself say. Surprised as he was at his own words, even more surprising was that she nodded in affirmative. Helping her walk to the washroom, he set her into the large porcelain tub that awaited them there.

Before the time of the zombies, this halfway house was used as a sort of a personal, luxurious getaway for the Darcy family. Used primarily for men who went hunting and fishing, it also sat atop a hidden hot spring. His great-great grandfather had been very fond of baths and had designed a special pumping system for the precious hot water to be transported directly into the ivory-colored tub.

Setting down his lamp upon a washstand, Darcy walked to a small fireplace located to the left of the tub. A golden stand beside it contained a pile of logs. Bending down to work on it, Darcy had a small fire was summoned within a few minutes. It burned cheerfully, despite the circumstances.

Darcy rose and turned back to face Elizabeth. At the sight of her, his eyes widened and he took a small step backwards towards the fire.

She had removed her riding cloak and breeches. She had removed the ribbon from her hair. She sat in the tub, with a frustrated expression, wearing naught but her bloomers, corset, and undershirt. Her exposed, creamy skin was covered with blood, sweat, and her own curling hair; it wrapped about her like a shawl. Reaching behind her, she was struggling with the ties of her corset.

"Could you," she was saying, in-between pulling the ties. "Could you help me with—"

She peered over her shoulder as she spoke and seemed to see something startling on Darcy's face. Her already flushed features reddened further and she quickly looked away.

"Could you help me loose the knots?" she asked, after a moment. Then, with a trembling hand, she lifted the curtain of her hair, revealing the curve of her neck and the ties upon her back.

Darcy blinked and his dark eyes dilated, as he looked upon his sensuous wife. Though she could not see his movement, he nodded, and began to walk forward. Touching her shoulder, he heard her sigh, softly.

 _Get a hold of yourself,_ his mind reprimanded, internally. _She is injured. She could be infected. Now is not the time!_

Yet even while he thought this, his breeches seemed to be painfully tight against his manhood.

He knelt beside the tub. Focusing on the inane task of undoing the knots, Darcy made quick work of the bloodied corset. Tossing it to the side of the bath, he seemed unsure of what to do next. All he seemed able to do was gaze upon the smooth lines of her back. Elizabeth looked over her shoulder at him, and said to him, softly, "So… ah... where shall we get water?"

"Oh," he replied, coming to himself. "But a moment."

He rose to his feet and pulled a hooped chain which hung from the ceiling of the cozy room. Giving it a quick pull, a gurgling sound erupted from a large, tubed spout located on the wall above the bathtub. In a few minutes, hot, sulphuric water poured out.

Elizabeth twitched in surprise, but relaxed at the touch of the warm water. The tub began to fill up, slowly washing away the blood and grime from her body. Darcy stared, silently, at her.

Kneeling, again, before the tub, he sighed heavily and said to her, "Show me your leg."

Elizabeth's relaxed face fell at his words, and he could see a tiny amount of fear in her eyes. A strange, tense air fell over them. Darcy removed his riding coat and rolled back the sleeves of his linen shirt. Reaching into the tub, she gripped his hand with her own; stopping his movements.

"Whatever happens," she said to him, in a deadly serious voice. "If I have been _truly_ bitten, you _will_ keep me from becoming one of them."

It was not a question. It was a promise. Darcy looked into her beautiful, warm eyes for a moment. Then, casting his own eyes downward, he nodded.

Satisfied, she released his hand. Dipping it, once more into the water, his skin touched hers.

Gods! Her skin was just as smooth as he imagined it would be. His heart ached within him at the thought. He could be losing her tonight. They were only just married and he could be losing her tonight! Elizabeth must have had a similar thought, for at his touch her breath became labored, but there was much pain in her eyes.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted her leg out of the water. Using a rinsing cloth, he began to clean away the caked blood and examine the wound.

It was deep and long; running from the top of her thigh to just below her knee. She winced as he examined the wound, and eventually shut her eyes to it entirely. However, as he continued to scrub and examine, he realized it was in the shape of a long, straight line...

… and far too thin to be a bite mark.

Darcy let out a loud, barking laugh. This startled Elizabeth, although there was little mystery to her reaction. He was not prone to laughter, and when he did laugh it was usually a dark chuckle. But the sense of relief and elation that came with the knowledge of Elizabeth being uninfected had stirred an unused emotion within him. Joy.

Submerging both of his arms into the water, he grabbed Elizabeth by her waist. Still laughing, he pressed her wet body against his own.

"Oh, my Lizzy!" he exclaimed with mirth. "It's a knife wound!"

"What?!" she replied, her eyes wide with hope.

"A knife wound!" he repeated, his rough voice thickened by emotion. "Those bastards must have used your own Chinese knives against you!"

"Oh, God!" she cried in realization. Then, erupting with happiness, she exclaimed, "Oh, Darcy!"

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she crashed her mouth into his. He held her waist tightly to himself as he plundered her eager mouth. Her soft lips pressed, almost desperately, against his own. Their tongues danced together with unknown energy, and Darcy felt lost in the almost violent, euphoric feeling.

The bathtub was beginning to overflow. They did not notice it. Too consumed in their jubilant love, they did not notice the water until it splashed onto the floor and Darcy's knees.

Rousing himself, Darcy pulled away from her and stood up. Giving the chain a decisive yank, the water ceased pouring into the room. Looking back at Elizabeth, he was both delighted and alarmed to find that her white underclothes had been soaked to the point of being nearly see-through. Averting his eyes, after staring a second too long, Darcy felt confused waves of frustration ripple through his body.

A wet touch on his hand brought his eyes back to Elizabeth, who was smiling up at him, almost as though she had read his thoughts.

"You are covered in blood and dirt, husband," she said to him, coyly. "Come into the bath with me."


	5. Chapter 5: Push and Pull

**WARNING:**  
 **The following chapter contains sexual descriptions. Please read at your own discretion.**  
 **Also, also, this contains the first sex-scene I've ever written. So please be gentle on the criticism!**

* * *

Elizabeth leaned back in the large tub with a sigh and extended her arms outward for him to take, or fall into. She breathed in the steamy air, while Darcy stared at her wide-eyed. Blinking, he made no show to move, though she had called out to him.

"Come," she called out again, flashing him a small, charming smile.

Still he stared at her, though his expression grew guarded. She lowered her arms into the water and waited. After an awkward moment, Darcy released the chain for the bath water and sat down on the hard wood of the floor. Removing his boots and stockings, slowly, he seemed to be deliberating something within himself… and getting nowhere in his debate.

"I—" he began, and then stopped himself from speaking further.

 _He's nervous_ , she thought to herself. _Perhaps more so than I._

The realization gave her an unfamiliar kind of confidence. Femininity, sexuality, lust—she was unacquainted to such things. This was not because she was ignorant, for she was well read and understood a great deal of what occurred between men and women. No, she was unacquainted with such things because she had kept her focus, solely, on becoming a fine warrior. To be soft, to be loving, to crave the touch of a man… these seemed to go against the principles she was trained by. Yet her heart fiercely longed for such things. The duality of her desires had been fighting within her ever since she had first met her husband.

Yet now, as his nervousness and hardness overtook him, these two qualities rallied together. In the span of one moment to the next, her heart was unified.

She was both entirely warrior and entirely woman.

"Darcy," she said, in a voice that dripped with both strength and desire.

He looked at her; helpless to her call.

"Take off your shirt before you enter," she said, smiling still.

For a moment, his expression became embarrassed and slightly off-kilter, but he seemed powerless to disobey her wishes. Nodding, he pulled his crisp, white linen shirt up over his head. As it came off, it tousled his dark hair.

Elizabeth felt light-headed at the sight of him. Never before had she been so close to a shirtless man; let alone this fine of a specimen. His body was lean but finely cut. His torso bore the seductive grooves of muscle, and little fine scars peppered his skin. Fine, dark hair trailed lightly from his pale chest, to his navel, and mysteriously further down into his trousers. Looking straight ahead, he allowed her scrutiny; clasping his hands behind his back in a militant-fashion. His stern face was unreadable.

"P-perhaps," she said, feeling bold. "Perhaps you should take the trousers off as well."

If her words embarrassed him, he did not show it. He merely did as he was instructed; removing what clothing remained on his body. Elizabeth's eyes widened. In the light of the fireplace, she gazed upon her naked husband for the first time.

Matching his personality and stance, his protruding member stood both proud and stiff. Elizabeth felt her whole body flush at the sight of it, and she felt slightly flustered to be staring so openly on so private a thing. Yet, her curiosity got the better of her.

"Come closer," she commanded. He blinked, but remained silent. Stepping forward, he approached the tub. When he was within reach, she hesitantly stretched out her hand to touch him.

His stoic expression seemed to fall away, unwillingly, as soon as her fingers brushed against manhood. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly; his breath grew ragged. Elizabeth looked up at him to gauge his reaction. He looked back down into her eyes, but seemed unable to form a comment. Taking him fully into her hand, she gave him some experimental tugs.

At this, Darcy's eyes squeezed shut and a barely repressed moan escaped his lips. As though she were Delilah with shears, and he Samson, it seemed as though all his strength had been suddenly sapped from him. He fell forward awkwardly, reaching up to catch the wall with one arm before he collapsed into the tub entirely.

"I'm sorry!" Elizabeth cried, letting go of him immediately. "Did I hurt you?"

His breath was labored, as he opened up his glassy, black eyes to look up at the ceiling.

"No," he replied in between breaths; running a hand through his dark hair. "No, Lizzy. That felt… that felt…"

Looking back down at her, he stepped over the ledge of the bathtub and sat in an awkward, crouched position in front of her. Water spilled over onto the floor in Darcy's wake, but they did not seem to notice or mind. His intense eyes bore into hers. Leaning forward, he lay against her in the water and wrapped his arms around her. In their closeness, he kissed her fiercely. His lips felt hot and rough; his tongue darted in to meet her; his naked body trembled as he held her close. Elizabeth could feel his hardness rub against her, giving her a strange tightness and tingling deep within her belly and maidenhood. She felt a burning longing for something to be resolved; a desperate need for something to be completed. It was an intense, tempting feeling.

As they kissed, his hands roamed her body and sent fluttering sensations across her skin. All too quickly, he reached her full bosom, and began to knead the bountiful flesh against his palms. She moaned softly into his mouth at the feel of his strong grasp. He tore his lips from hers at the sound, and began peppering her neck with violent kisses, eliciting louder mewls of pleasure from her.

The scant bodice that she had been wearing strained against her breasts, as he continued his exploration. The small buttons that lined the front began to pop off, which seemed to encourage the frenzy Darcy had fallen into. Tearing his lips from her neck, he pulled away from her and with a precise movement, ripped the offending cloth in two.

Her large breasts toppled out of the torn linen, naked before his eyes. He stared upon her, in a kind of daze, his momentary frenzy halting. Almost timidly, he removed her bloomers and threw them onto the floor. She sat before him now, completely bare, wet, and vulnerable.

Though he said nothing, his expression was that of awe and desire. He stared at her, openly, for a long while. Then, he blinked, as though coming to himself. Looking from her nude form to her face, he suddenly appeared shy and uncertain. Sitting upon his knees, he leaned forward once more. He seemed so tall compared to her. She had to lean back against to look fully into his face. He placed his hands on her arms.

"Lizzy," he said quietly, as he urgently searched her eyes. "What… what would you have me do?"

She smiled up at him, and reached out a hand to tenderly push a tuft of dampened hair from his eyes. She loved him so much. He was so proud, yet so silly. Brave, yet shy. Strong, yet gentle.

"Take me to bed," she replied, whispering as if she were planning mischief. "Take me to bed and make me your wife."

* * *

His ears burned at the sound of her clear voice saying those sweet, seductive words. Never in his life was he ever given an order he so desperately wished to obey. Never in his life had he felt so foolish, yet cared so little.

Taking her soft, yet muscular body into his arms, he stood up. At his movement, she had instinctively wrapped her legs about his waist, and threw her arms about his neck. Gods! The feel of her against him! The weight of her! The wetness of her skin! He paused to take a wit-saving breath. He would have need of it.

He stepped over the ledge of the tub, landing on the ground with a slight jolt. At this, she bounced somewhat and shifted her position against him for a moment. He felt a moment of wet velvet sliding across his erection, and she gasped aloud. Gripping her luxurious backside with his hands, he stared into her face to make sure she was alright.

Her fine eyes were shut and her eyebrows were raised to the hairline. Her cheeks were flushed and small beads of sweat were forming upon her brow. Her lips were slightly parted. She was panting, as though she had spent the hour running.

"Darcy," she whimpered in an embarrassed tone. "I—I need you… I ache—"

"As do I," he confided, hoarsely. She opened her eyes at his words, and the desperation he saw in her shook him to the core. She was much too fine a lady and too noble a warrior to be looking upon _him_ like that. He kissed her, sweetly, softly; his tongue gently opening her mouth. He held her tightly and took her to the master suite.

It was dark. He placed her gently upon the large four-poster bed and quickly lit a fire in the fireplace. After a few minutes, a bright fire illuminated the room and made the space seem more intimate. Shadows danced upon the walls, cast by the sofas and bookshelves that filled up the cozy bedroom.

Elizabeth lay upon the bed, naked, on her side. Her hair fell about her like a dark veil. She was resting her head upon the crook of her arm, and was watching him with lust-filled eyes. It wasn't until that moment that Darcy realized he had been keeping his backside to her. The thought that his body brought her pleasure filled him with both embarrassment and confidence.

He quickly crossed the room to her; he was eager to have her in his arms again. She, in turn, readily received him. She smiled as he practically fell onto the bed, hugging her to himself. She was still smiling as they kissed. In moments like this, she made him feel like a stumbling boy.

A surge of fire seemed to be burning through him as he became lost in the feel of her. His kisses grew hungry and desperate. In all his life, she was the only one who seemed to make him that way, yet he did not feel mastered. She was no nagging wife; she did not lord over him. She was his equal and his companion. She needed him. He needed her. He needed this. He needed all the wonderful things she did to him. He needed it now.

"Lizzy," he moaned. Panting, she opened her heady, loving eyes and looked into his. Reaching his hand between them, he grabbed a hold of himself and positioned at her entrance. She took in a sharp, surprised breath at this. Darcy sighed, for she felt slick with desire. Desire for him.

Still looking at her face, he seemed unable to ask what he longed for. Words escaped him. Yet, she looked back at him, closed her eyes, and nodded, as if she heard his unspoken question.

Holding her head in one hand, and himself in the other, he drew her close. Leaning his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes.

"Tell me... tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered.

"Don't stop," she whispered back, sending anticipatory shivers down his spine. She reached around and clung tightly to his back with her arms, preparing for the plunge. "Don't stop," she repeated.

With one quick stroke, he sheathed himself within her.

She cried out and her arms clamped harder around his back. Darcy could barely breathe. She was tight about him; her virginal maidenhood clenching and stretching. With all the willpower he possessed, he forced himself to remain still. Trembling, he gripped the bed sheets beneath them.

"Lizzy," he said in a raw, desperate voice. "Ohh... Lizzy... a-are you alright?"

Her face was contorted in pain for a moment, and then she seemed to relax, slightly.

"Y-yes," she replied uncertainly. "Please… kiss me …"

Obligingly, he leaned down and held her lips in a kiss of fire. She relaxed her arms a bit. At his kiss, he could feel the pooling of wetness from her against his skin. Breaking his lips from hers, he breathed a shaky breath. The desire to thrust overwhelmed him, as the pleasure he sought seemed so tantalizingly near. Her breasts, with nipples sharpened by arousal, lay just beneath his face. He could hardly keep control of his own body; the effort causing sweat to drip from his brow.

"Lizzy..." he panted, helplessly. "Lizzy, I'm sorry... I-I cannot... I have to... move... _please_..."

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded husky and feral. If he had his wits about him, he would've felt embarrassed at the sound. However, Elizabeth merely held onto him tighter, pressing him deeper into her, and she breathlessly said, " _Move_."

Groaning with relief, he began his movements slowly, pushing himself deeper and deeper with each thrust. With each stab, he could feel her shudder beneath him, until, at long last, she let out a gasp of pleasure.

"Faster," she cried, arching her back into him. Darcy quickened his pace, trying to maintain a rhythm. His breath grew shallow and hers seemed to match his. A steady steam of in, out, in, out. Like the push and pull of the ocean tide.

 _She is so lovely_ , he thought as he looked upon her. _She is an angel. A temptress. Gods!_

Seizing her, he sat her up. Sitting upon his knees on the bed, he pulled her onto his lap, and gripping her buttocks, he moved her up and down upon himself. Her hair flew about her like a cape. Her sweet mouth elicited cries both lewd and innocent. Passionately, he kissed her and tightened his hold upon her. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open and he saw them shining with realization. Her expression grew sharp and a smile lit her face, as he had often seen her do when she recognized an enemy's weakness.

Taking both her hands, she placed them onto his shoulders. Though her weight was slight, she was strong, and she pushed him. As he was holding onto her, he could not maintain his balance, and he fell onto his back on the bed with a grunt.

His eyes widened with surprise and arousal. She sat atop of him, like the winner of a fight. She flashed him a grin that quickly melted into a look of pained ecstasy, for she could not stop the constant desire of push and pull. Grinding on top of him, her thrusts grew faster and faster. She was looking directly into his eyes as she sensually rode him; the pressure and tension mounted within them. Darcy knew he was close to completion, but denied himself again and again for her sake. He wanted to last as long as possible.

"Oh Darcy!" she was crying out in-between breaths. "Oh—!"

"Ughh... hha..." he moaned, gripping the sides of the bed. "T-tell me..."

"I-I'm... going to... going to—!"

But whatever she intended to say was lost, as Darcy felt her clenching deliciously about him; her head tilt back in elation, her eyes fluttering shut, her lips parted but soundless. She was beautiful as she came. Hardly a moment after her, he released his own climax, bellowing loudly like an animal.

A moment of still calm fell over them. Both attempted to steady their hearts and breath.

Trembling, Elizabeth detached herself from him, making him feel strangely emptier for it. She must have felt the same, for she immediately fell forward to lay on top of him. Her body was wet from sweat, desire, and the barest traces of blood. The weight of her upon him was oddly comforting, and he suddenly felt incredibly safe and sleepy. Elizabeth lifted up from him for a moment to pepper his face with tiny, loving kisses. He held her, gently.

She ceased her kisses to look at him, yet she said nothing. Shuddering, he attempted to steady his breath. She was looking into his eyes and smiling her beautiful, warm smile.

 _I must have done well,_ he thought, sheepishly.

He reached up to caress her face and looked directly back into her eyes.

"I love..." he began, his voice oddly thick with an unnameable emotion. Clearing his throat, he attempted a second time, "I love... I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on. My dear, Elizabeth—" He stopped himself, for he felt uncharacteristically emotional.

"Hush Darcy," she replied sweetly. "Do not cry, darling. For I love you too, and I shall never be parted from you... and heaven help any who try to separate us."

As embarrassed as he felt over her attempting to soothe him, he could not help but grin at her bravado. She kissed his small smile. Settling herself at his side, she pulled him into an embrace. His head rested upon her breast, and her arms wrapped about his neck. Though they were laying opposite from the top of the bed, Darcy had never felt so comfortable.

"Goodnight, husband," she cooed, sleepily. "Sleep... well..."

He looked up at her face as she spoke; her own words lulling her asleep. Reaching down, Darcy threw the bedclothes about them, and entwined his arms about her small body. He kissed her neck lightly. She sighed in her sleep at his touch.

Shutting his eyes, he murmured against her skin, "Sleep well, my Lizzy."


End file.
